"A Way Out" (By Sharon Monroe, writing as Paul Gordon) *Would you risk your soul for him?* Apollo woke with a strangled gasp, and stared wildly about the dimly-lit room. He was shaking as he sat up, and felt drenched with sweat. The nightmare... A face appeared before him, and he drew back in dismay. *Specters shouldn't be able to leave your dreams...* "Skipper, you okay?" It was Jolly, who'd been asleep in the bunk below him. "Jolly!" He didn't try to hide the relief in his voice. "What...?" The stocky sergeant shrugged, keeping his voice to a whisper so he wouldn't wake the other warriors in the ready room. "Heard you muttering, and you been tossing around for better'n a centar. Bad dream?" "Yeah. Hope I didn't wake anybody else." "Doesn't look like it." "Good. Better try and get back to sleep, Jolly. We could be called any time." He turned away, setting his head back on the pillow. He was less concerned with setting a good example than with avoiding any further discussion of his "nightmare." After a moment, the other man's concerned face vanished, and he could be heard settling his bulk back on the lower bunk. A few centons and restless creaks later, and gentle snoring proclaimed that the sergeant was asleep. The captain couldn't doze off again; the awful dream had his adrenaline pumping, and he was too tense. An image kept forming in his mind's eye - a friend he couldn't identify, a body he couldn't turn over, somebody dying... He shivered. Alert periods were bad enough. After a Cylon attack, or some other emergency, the warriors might be kept on top alert, essentially confined to the ready rooms for as long as a secton. After six days of only Blue Squadron for companionship, with nerves and fatigue nibbling at them all, the strain was telling. Apollo took a deep breath, then another, forcing every muscle to relax. He'd been good at the old discipline at the Academy - although, since the Destruction, exhaustion had usually made it unnecessary.... * * * * * "Patrols and scans continue to show no trace of Cylons, Commander," Omega reported. "We may be able to take our warriors off full alert." "Good, good. How is Colonel Tigh's damage assessment report?" "Nearly complete, sir. He's aboard the Electronics ship, at the rear of the fleet, conferring with Dr. Ellis and MasterTech Pallinda. At last report, he expected to be returning to the Galactica in a few centars." Adama rubbed his weary eyes. Six days since the Cylon attack. Six very busy days. They didn't know where the Cylons had come from, or where they had vanished so quickly. But damage was still being repaired on several ships in the fleet, and the warriors were still on alert. In the entire time, he himself had barely left the bridge long enough to get a few centars' sleep or to grab a quick meal. Colonel Tigh was likewise overworked. the survey of fleet damage occupied a great deal of time with a dozen ships hit in the surprise attack. Repairs were continuing on all ships, of course. But the extent of the damage had to be determined, spare equipment and replacement parts had to be found or fabricated, and estimates of repair time once those parts were available had to be made, all of which took time, energy, and an occasional argument over which ships and repairs were more important and would take precedence. In the meantime, the fleet's movements and speed were severely restricted. The warriors remained on constant alert. And Commander Adama remained on the bridge while his executive officer handled the repairs, conferred with the necessary technical staff, and provided public relations and public evidence of command involvement from the highest levels. * * * * * "Launch-a-second-attack." "By-your-command." "We-must-capture-warrior-personnel-alive-if-we-wish-to-learn- the-humans' -ultimate- goal. We-must-discover-the-destination-of- their-fleet." "By-your-command." * * * * * "Commander!" "What is it, Athena?" Adama snapped back. "Scan shows a wave of small ships heading for the fleet! Warbook identifies as three-passenger fighters!" "Cylon attack craft," the elder warrior muttered. "Omega-" The flight officer had already begun activating the alert sirens, signaling the warriors in their ready rooms, and informing the other ships in the fleet to expect imminent attack. By the time Adama reached his station, Omega had already ordered the battlestar's own laser turrets and missile chambers to active, armed, and ready status, and closed the shields that would protect this part of the ship during any attack. Blocking off all chambers assured that they would be oxygen-tight should the ship sustain any serious damage. Below him, the very efficient launch coordinator, Rigel, was already checking the status of all warriors and Vipers, and directing the initial squadron launch. Her long braids flew as she turned her head to report to her commander. "Red Squadron was up; they're away. Blue Squadron launching now. We're bringing Green and Yellow into position; they should be ready in a centon." "Thank you, Rigel." Adama leaned over Omega's shoulder again, resting his palms on the console as he studied his hurrying, seemingly chaotic bridge crew. *What are we up against this time? How many ships? Where are they coming from?* There were times it was very frustrating to be the commander to have to stand on the bridge and wait impatiently while others fought the battles, to be unable to affect the outcome through any means other than strategy and advance preparation. Adama's instinct was to be out there, fighting too, but he could do no more than the rest of his crew, watching tensely, fulfilling his assigned task... * * * * * Mercifully, the battle was brief, although for the over-fatigued and keyed-up pilots, that short centar could have been days. As the last of his Cylon targets exploded into silent metal shards, Apollo permitted himself a sigh of relief. A search of his scanner revealed no more enemy ships in the area. "That looks like it," he heard a voice say. "A few ran, but I think we got most of them." He leaned back, allowing himself a moment of relaxation before heading back to his ship. His neck and shoulder muscles protested as he rested against the seat, and he had to work to unclench the muscles of his left hand, which still tightly clutched the joystick. He let his chin drop and his shoulders sag in an effort to get the tension to flow out of his too-taut body. It would be good to get back... But it wouldn't be much of a break. He'd have combat statistics to gather, a report on the battle to fill out, casualties to list... He gritted his teeth in impotent rage - that he couldn't just fall back into his disturbed sleep, but must be at the call of computer terminals, statistics forms, and his own exhaustion and inevitable, which he knew would set in when the natural chemical energy of combat wore off, and he found out who hadn't returned. *And now the frakkin' condition alert'll last even longer!* He snarled as he turned his Viper for home. Being flight commander could be a real pain; sometimes duty and rank pushed him to the wall, and he wanted so much to strike back at it all. Of course, his current short fuse wouldn't do him honor in any situation. He tried to let the anger melt away with the tension as he flew home, knowing weariness would replace it. "Captain Apollo?" "Here, Corporal," he answered Rigel's voice with as much grace and alacrity as he could muster. "Commander Adama wishes to see you as soon as you land." "I'll report to the bridge immediately." "The Commander will meet you in the briefing room, Captain." "Acknowledged. Thanks, Rigel." "You are cleared for landing, Captain. Core Command out." Silently wondering what had gone wrong this time, Apollo turned his attention to an unusually sloppy landing. * * * * * The captain strode into the briefing room where Commander Adama awaited his arrival. They were alone, he noted at once with sudden dread. *This isn't just formal business-as-usual. Something serious is wrong, something that involves me personally. Has someone been killed? Athena? Boxey?* The nightmare at the edge of his mind returned to claw a toehold into his conscious thoughts. "I'm here, Commander, as you ordered." "Sit down, Apollo." His father sounded haggard. The last few days had been harsh and draining on him, too, but the commander's exhaustion seemed to sink into his very soul. "What is it, Father?" Adama took a deep breath and looked up at him. "We think we've finally analyzed the Cylon attack strategy." Apollo was puzzled. "That's basically good, isn't it? We can plan a defense against it..." The older man shook his head slowly, as if every yahren and every tear and pain of those yahrens was now hanging from chains around his throat. "We're too late, Apollo. They've already succeeded." He felt a chill, and answered in a stunned whisper. "What have they done? Haven't we any chance, any hope left?" A wave of weary despair washed over him. All their efforts, all their suffering since the Destruction - was it all for nothing? Adama clasped his hands. "Sit down, Apollo. You have a mission to perform. Perhaps the most important mission of your career, and certainly the saddest." The captain slowly moved to a chair, his eyes fastened on his father's. "The Cylons apparently intended to take captives in the attack. In the first, they failed - you drove them off, with casualties, but they took no prisoners. The second time..." He took another deep breath. Apollo could see tears burning his father's eyes; it was hard for him to speak. "A shuttle traveling at the rear of the fleet was forced away from our ships. That shuttle is now moving away from us in the midst of a Cylon fighter convoy. We're still tracking them, but it won't be for long. "Apollo, we can't risk letting the personnel aboard the shuttle fall into Cylon hands for interrogation. We will follow them, at a discreet distance, but it will be up to you and some of your best men to carry out these orders." "What are the orders?" He tried to be professional. It wasn't easy to leave any humans in Cylon captivity, but he didn't see how their very survival depended on them. "Free that shuttle - or bring it down. Use whatever means you have to." He was stunned. "Bring it... What? Destroy one of our own? Why?" "Captain Apollo, one of the men on that shuttle is a high-ranking officer in this fleet. He is one of the few who actually know the coordinates of our secret destination. He knows our plans, our crews, our combat personnel and strength. He could betray us - and Earth, as well. He cannot be allowed to divulge what he knows to the enemy - not with all humanity riding on it. If you can't free him, you must kill him." Apollo was numb. He nodded his head jerkily. This would not be a pleasant mission. But the commander was right - there was too much at stake for any other choice. He rose slowly. "I'll choose my strike team." "There's something else you should know, so it doesn't come as a shock later, so you truly know what you're doing, my son. The man you may have to kill...is Colonel Tigh." * * * * * The faces of the score or so of warriors making up the strike team betrayed the same anguish and horror Apollo had felt when he learned Colonel Tigh was a Cylon prisoner. He could give them as little comfort as the commander had been able to give him. They had a mission to carry out, and had to act immediately - follow the Cylons, locate their base, and either rescue or destroy that shuttle, and the man with it. "But the Colonel..." Apollo'd never seen such shock on Starbuck's face. "As the Commander pointed out, we don't have much choice. We can't risk letting the Cylons interrogate him. He knows too much. There's too much riding on it now - not just us, but Earth as well." "The Colonel wouldn't tell them anything!" Sheba insisted defiantly, eloquent tears streaking her cheeks. He stared levelly at her. "So you'd rather leave him to them, to see how long he can last? Given a choice, I think he'd prefer a quick and merciful death, even at our hands, to the agony of Cylon methods. I'm sure the colonel knows what we have to do, and understands." There was silence in the room. "Hey, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," Starbuck forced out, seeking some positive note. "The orders are to rescue, right? That's only the last resort." "But what are the odds?" Boomer breathed. The strike team knew the necessity of the mission, and the likelihood of a that "last resort," much as individuals might try to deny it emotionally. There were no further questions. It was time to act. * * * * * "Colonel, what do we do?" Tigh stared bleakly out the port, watching the flight formation of their escort Raiders. Simply quieting the terrified passengers had been a major effort when the Cylons swept down on them from nowhere. Now, they were obviously being taken somewhere - and he could guess for what purpose. His lips compressed tightly as he considered the value of this small group of humans in the eyes of their metal foe - civilians, mostly simple technicians, male and female, and two small children. He was the only warrior aboard. And he was the one the Cylons would want alive. For a little while. The shuttle was a civilian craft; it wasn't armed. They couldn't strike a blow in their defense, however futile a gesture that might be. It wasn't fair. These people looked to him for protection and orders to save their lives. And there was nothing he could do. "The Galactica must know of our situation by now. I'm sure they've dispatched fighters after us," he told the shuttle pilot, trying to be as reassuring as he could, although he realistically doubted the battlestar could afford to waste manpower, fuel, or equipment to chase them down. They were doomed. But his words seemed to ease the civilian's fears, just as they'd settled the hysteria of the passengers. If the Galactica came after them, they were sure that, somehow, they would be safe. He couldn't tell them otherwise, not in any definition of kindness. *But is it fair to let them think they'll be rescued, when I know they're all going to die?* "I'm sure the Cylons will force us to land somewhere," he told them. "I doubt our Vipers will attack where we might be hit. When we land, stay low, women and children behind the seats. We don't want to antagonize the Cylons into shooting when rescue might be only centons away. If they unload us, we must all do what we think is best for our own survival, and that of our fellow passengers. The Cylons will certainly kill us if we resist." *And probably if we don't.* There were murmurs among the civilians, and some doubtful glances, but everyone seemed willing to do as he told them. He hoped he'd suggested the right thing. *If only there were some way to fight, even knowing we can't win...* He shuddered, thinking of what he knew of Cylon interrogation techniques and devices. Mulling over the probable questions - and the answers he might be coerced into supplying - Colonel Tigh reached the conclusion that he could not permit himself to be captured alive. The question, of course, was how to prevent that occurrence. * * * * * The Cylons had vanished into the asteroid field of the star system, beyond the fleet's scanners, only discovered because the Vipers had been following so closely. It was a perfect hiding place. Apollo was in despair; they could search for yahrens, and never locate a hidden base. But the Colonials got lucky. The shuttle pilot, whoever he was, kept trying to transmit a distress signal. The Cylons had to keep scrambling that signal, and the Colonials were able to narrow down the source of the resulting static. With that as a guide, the pilots tracked the Cylons through the asteroids to an inner planetoid. By the time the signal went silent - with all that silence implied about the fate of the small craft's occupants - they knew the general location of the base. "What now, Captain?" Sheba asked. "Shut down the base, especially the communications equipment and launch facilities," he replied, hoping his voice sounded steadier than hers. "That'll give us time to search without their revealing our presence or striking back when we're on the ground." "They'll kill those people before they let us rescue them," Starbuck said fatalistically. "Then at least we'll have bought them that much - and they'll know we came for them." *Maybe we'll get luck. Sure, and maybe the Imperious Leader'll volunteer to be our target on the laser range.* "Knock out their scanners, too. Maybe they won't know we're here; it'll give us a little bit of an edge." * * * * * Tigh was sick. The civilians never had a chance. Even the children were slaughtered as efficiently and as immediately as the Cylons always killed humans, from the most dangerous warrior to the most helpless infant. The twisting of his stomach came from rage at having to watch the blood-bath as well as from the chemicals he'd swallowed. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps fortunately, it hadn't occurred to the metal monsters to use the civilians as hostages against his compliance, or the threat of their agony as opposed to his own. Tigh was hustled away from the empty shuttle and the bloody landing area around it. From the sound and the speed with which his captors rushed him, something was wrong. *Surely the Galactica isn't risking a rescue attempt - that's foolhardy...* He felt rather than heard the vibrations that meant laser fire was striking somewhere. * * * * * The Colonial warriors wiped out the base's defensive capabilities with their first salvos. They pinpointed the landing field where the shuttle had been brought down, but didn't risk firing near it; the prisoners, if any, might still be held nearby, and keeping the area from going up in flames might give them a better chance of staying alive. Instead, the warriors concentrated their fire on other strategic locations. When all resistance had apparently been destroyed, Apollo ordered his attack force to the ground. "Do you really think that's necessary, Captain?" Greenbean asked. "When the Cylons realized what we were doing, they must've killed anybody who was still alive. We won't find any human survivors." "Maybe not. But we have to confirm Colonel Tigh's fate. We can't leave any chances that the Cylons might get the coordinates to Earth. And maybe, just maybe, the Colonel had a chance to get away when we attacked. We can't leave him here for the next base star that patrols this quadrant." He sensed silent agreement, and a small bit of hope, from the others. Some of them might die in the search, but they might be lucky enough to rescue the civilians - and the one warrior who had been aboard. It was also more personally satisfying to complete the destruction of the Cylon base face-to-face with the enemy. Apollo realized his order was against standard procedure, and might even be foolhardy - but in this instance, they had to be sure. There were perhaps half-a-dozen functional Cylons in the landing bay when the humans invaded; they were soon dispatched. When the warriors encountered the gruesome, gory site of the shuttle massacre, the turned their weapons on the hated mechanicals until there was literally nothing left of them but small puddles of slag. After a brief, nauseating search, they confirmed Tigh's body wasn't among the unfortunate civilians. Then, their expressions grim and sickly, they split up into smaller parties and fanned out into the holding area, leaving a handful of guards over their craft. Apollo, Boomer, Starbuck, and Jolly paced warily through empty stone corridors carved into the heart of the planetoid. The stone was laced with veins of metal, some of it valuable, although the Cylons ignored the treasure that had frequently adorned the homes and persons of rich men and women in the Colonies. Amid all the wealth, the Colonials walked carefully, hoping their echoing footfalls didn't attract unwanted attention. When they came to a branching of the sterile, well-lit hall, they conferred for a moment before splitting up further, Apollo and Starbuck going to the left, while Boomer and Jolly went to the right. "Stay in communications range," the captain cautioned as they separated. "This stone might absorb our radio signals and interfere with our communications equipment." In a few moments, Apollo and Starbuck reached a sealed metal hatch with Cylon script across it. The door fit solidly into the floor and walls, giving no clue what might lie behind it. "Damn!" Apollo whispered. The place sent eerie shudders down his back, and he kept looking back, expecting to be followed. "For all we know, this might open into their command center." Starbuck studied the stenciled lettering closely. "No! Remember when I was captured at Kobol, Apollo? This looks like the same lettering they had on the door of the detention chambers. I think this might be where they hold their prisoners!" "What if you're wrong?" "One way to find out." "*You're* the gambler." Starbuck smiled grimly, and turned the round handle. There was no whoosh of escaping air; whatever lay beyond was pressurized. Between them, the two men hauled the metal door open and slipped through. "More deserted corridors!" Apollo muttered, with growing foreboding. "A double row of cells," was Starbuck's intent contribution. "If they've got any prisoners, they're here, Apollo." "I'll start checking cells. You call Boomer and Jolly, and let them know what we found. If the Colonel's alive, he should be around here somewhere." "Should we try calling to him?" "And risk alerting any remaining Cylons? Or have him betray his hiding place when they might be looking for him? And us? No." Apollo left Starbuck standing at the door as he began making his way down the long row of small, impersonal cells. He found nothing. All the cells were locked, but through their clear doors he could see they were empty. At the end of the row, the corridor turned, leading off to the left. There were more chambers down that way. Looking back at his friend, Apollo gestured to indicate the direction he was taking. Starbuck waved back to let him know that Boomer and Jolly were on their way here. With a nod of understanding, the captain moved in. The first three cells he glanced into were as empty as the others. In the fourth, he found the goal of their search. "Colonel!" Apollo didn't bother searching for a key pass or code; he blasted the door controls and kicked the clear panel in. He ran in to crouch over the huddled body of his superior officer. Tigh was curled in a tight ball in the corner opposite the door, facing the chiseled stone wall. When Apollo tried to turn him over, he saw the man's face was discolored, with an unusual gray-blue pallor under the dark brown complexion. His skin was cold, but beaded with unnatural sweat. Blood clotted around his nostrils and lips. "Colonel!" *What have they done...?* Bloodshot eyes forced themselves open to stare at him. For a moment, Apollo thought the man didn't recognize him; then Tigh spoke. "Apollo..." he breathed in agonized gasps. "Didn't...take you...too?" "No! We're here to rescue you." He tried to pull the older man into his arms, to carry him away from this frightening cell that screamed of torture and death. "What did they do to you, sir? We'll get you out of here, we'll have you safe in a few centons..." Tigh moaned, and pulled away from him. "Nothing...Apollo. Nothing they...did. Knew I...couldn't let them...question me...so I drank a...bit of engine lubricant... Tylium-derived...you know. Know it was...poison...knew it would...work...didn't think...it would take...this long..." "We'll get you back to the Galactica. You'll be all right," the younger man insisted, trying to reassure him. But he was appalled, realizing they were likely too late. He knew that ingested tylium, in any of several forms, caused an ugly death; he'd never witnessed it. Tigh smiled, a ghastly stretching of his face that brought more blood; then he coughed. "No. It...burns, Apollo. Burns...like fire...inside. Help...me..." He groped for the young man's weapon, missed. The captain fell back, horrified. "What...?" "Can't live...Apollo... Get it...over with...now. Please...or let me...have the laser..." "But..." "Tell...your father...thanks...for trying... He's always been...a good friend... Good luck, wherever...we wind up...on whatever world... If your father's...right about...some things...maybe I'll...be with you...in spirit.... If I can..." He gasped as a fresh wave of pain curled his body into a futilely protective ball around his stomach, the source of the tendrils of agony spreading into every nerve. His hand tightened on Apollo's wrist in a death grip. The young man was shaking. "You're asking me to... I can't!" "Please... Don't make me...wait...and suffer...any more. Didn't tell...Cylons anything. Get it...over." He seemed to find a last reserve of strength, and pulled Apollo closer, meeting his gaze with a fierce effort. "Won't make it...order...but please...as friend...for your father...?" Tigh was dying; Apollo could see that. And there was nothing he could do. He couldn't let his father's friend - his friend - endure any more than he already had. And they had known, coming here, that something like this might be necessary, although it had been sufficiently impersonal, in space, that he had steeled himself to it. This... He doubted the colonel had the strength to pull the trigger himself; he would have to perform that last favor, although it would rip his heart. And what would it do to his soul? A friend's death, at his hands, although begged for, might be an act of mercy, but it was still... *How can I tell my father?* Tears blurred his vision. "Colonel? Forgive me." The older man's voice breathed a grateful sigh as the captain aimed with trembling fingers. Apollo squeezed his eyes tightly shut as his finger pressed the trigger... * * * * * "No!" Starbuck screamed, firing at the Cylon centurion standing in the hall. It fell in a pile of short-circuiting metal parts. The lieutenant ran to the door of the cell the Cylon had stood before; he drew up short. "Lords, no..." He fell to his knees, and began to cry. * * * * * "We found the Colonel's body," Greenbean reported. "We're bringing him back. Call in the others; we got what we came for." His expression was haggard and depressed; he'd hoped, against the odds, that they'd be lucky enough to find the colonel alive. It wasn't long before the warriors were gathered in the Cylon landing bay. Only Apollo, Starbuck, Boomer, and Jolly were missing - and they were bringing back Colonel Tigh's body. "There!" The others turned at Bojay's call. They saw Boomer first, walking very slowly, with the dead weight of the colonel's body over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. His face was strained, and he carefully averted his eyes from the carnage surrounding the shuttle as he joined his comrades. "Where's the Captain? And the others? Covering the rear?" Greenbean asked. Boomer shook his head sadly, tears running freely down his cheeks. "Get the Colonel into the shuttle. We're taking the bodies back." They'd already loaded the civilian bodies, wrapped in thermo-blankets. In a moment, the others came out of the dark corridor. The waiting warriors gasped when they saw Apollo draped over the heavy-set Jolly's shoulders. Starbuck brought up the rear, his weapon drawn, his face tight in a grief deeper than any of them remembered seeing before. They gathered in stunned silence as the sergeant gently lowered his burden to the cold stone floor. "He's..." Starbuck couldn't continue, merely bowing his head in the depths of his grief. He'd been a micron too late. Sheba knelt over the still body, shock and disbelief giving way to anguish. She began to shake with the force of her silent tears. "Somebody's gonna have to tell the Commander what this mission cost," Jolly said softly. "The Colonel, and the Skipper..." No one else had anything to say for a long time. The only sound in the otherwise silent landing bay was a woman's sobs of grief. - The End -